


Spark

by HippolytaGale



Category: RWBY
Genre: Blake is still in the White Fang, Canon Divergence, F/F, Love at First Sight, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-18
Updated: 2015-06-18
Packaged: 2018-04-05 00:10:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4158222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HippolytaGale/pseuds/HippolytaGale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I don’t want to hurt you, but if you won’t let them go, you’ll have to go through me.”<br/>Those lavender eyes glared back at her, defiant. Blake adjusted her grip on Gambol Shroud’s edged sheath.<br/>“You don’t have to do this.” Blake said. “I don’t want to hurt you either. Just step aside.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spark

Yang was not looking forward to today. She stepped off the light rail and into the City Center, wishing the day would pass over her without incident. Giant public celebrations weren’t really Yang’s thing, especially if she had to be there. Why was the equinox such a big deal, anyway? It was the start of spring (that she could understand), but school was still in session for another few months and the weather was mild at best, misty and chilly at worst. Today’s weather was of the latter. She turned up the collar of her leather jacket to protect her neck from the stiff breeze. She grunted, half-formed complaints rumbling in her throat. She wished Ruby at least could’ve tagged along—at least then she wouldn’t be bored.

_Dad owes me big time._

Such was the curse of having a legendary Huntsman as a father: so many engagements, so little time, and when you have to back out of one at the last minute beg your children to attend for you. At least it was a casual occasion—no need for a dress and heels. No, not for a little equinox festival, tacky carnival booths and all: boots, flannel, jacket and a scarf would be enough. Except they weren’t enough, because she was still freezing her ass off.

“Goddamn.” She muttered.

Public celebrations weren’t Yang’s thing, but open bars were. The City Center had a great cocktail place that overlooked the outer square; it was dim with mood lighting and fruity concoctions, perfect for idling time away. Thank god for strawberry sunrises; she was early, way early, but she could throw a few back and relax before she had to speak. Besides, drinking for free was one of the only perks of this miserable situation. Yang loved the way the liquor warmed her cheeks and let out the handful of wistful notions kicking around in her brain. Children in the square bought flowers from multicolored booths and made crowns for their parents—Yang wondered if there were any kids at home with no one to give them to.

“God,” She said to no one in particular. “How depressing.”

Three drinks in she saw a group walk into the bar, but one girl in particular caught her attention: she was tall, leggy, had a “I don’t give a fuck” look if Yang ever saw one. She had beautiful amber eyes and black hair, and a pair of feline ears to match. 

_What a beauty,_ Yang thought.

The men in the group were Faunus too, deer and bears and a rabbit or two, and all of them parked in a corner on some sofas and sat without saying a word. The woman with the cat ears walked up to the bar and sat on the stool next to Yang’s.

“Excuse me,” She gestured to the bartender. “We’re here for the dedication and we have a handicapped friend coming later. Is there someone we can talk to about using the service elevator?” 

The bartender ignored her. He poured another drink for Yang, made eye contact with the girl, and turned away to slice limes on the counter. Her eyes narrowed but she seemed unsurprised. When Yang touched her hand for an instant she went rigid, but loosened as Yang motioned to him with her head.

“Hey!” Yang called. “Can I get a martini too? Two olives.” 

The barkeep grunted. When he finished making the drink, she slid him a bill.

“Who would I talk to about using the service elevator? I have a bad knee.” He looked at Yang, the girl, and back again. He took the money and sneered.

“Sullivan, on the office level. He approves all the service access points.”

“Thanks,” Yang smiled. She pointed to the martini still in his hand. “You can give that to her.” There was a moment, a slim one, that Yang considered asking for her name. Instead, she downed the rest of her own cocktail and nodded to the woman. “You and your friends enjoy the rest of your day, yeah?”

Outside the event planners weren’t happy; the sound system crackled and the tech had been gone getting cables for twenty minutes. Beyond that, the city commissioner hadn’t arrived yet either, and wouldn’t for two hours, so Yang found an empty bench and watched the booths outside, bored to tears. The children in the square weren’t squirrely yet, but they’d be all over the walls of the Center if that new playground wasn’t unveiled soon. Yang just hoped she wouldn’t be stuck here much longer.

 _More time to kill. Great._ She sighed. More time staring at all of these happy parents and their offspring.

Yang didn’t believe in fate, but she wanted to most of the time. Fate-with-a-capital-F was a safe idea, secure; it took the burden of finding happiness out of your hands, and lessened the sting of failure. She hated the idea too. It was too easy to back down if you felt like it wasn’t your path. Yang thought of the Faunus girl—she should’ve tried to chat, listened to her instincts that she was worth staying for. Another missed opportunity.

“Is this seat taken?”

Yang looked up. It was the Faunus girl from the bar, even prettier outside than she was indoors. In fact, the way her eyes caught the daylight made Yang’s tongue trip a little.

“N-No, no, not at all. Please.” The woman sat down next to her. Yang extended her hand. The girl hesitated, but shook it. “I’m Yang. Nice to meet you.”

“Blake.” She sat down, the breeze blowing her hair across her face. It looked good like that.

_Fate-with-a-capital-F, Yang. Do not fuck this up._

“So,” Yang cleared her throat. “You’re here for the playground dedication? Seems like a strange place for a bunch of adults.”

“We have a friend that’s coming that will enjoy it. We’re here for support, in case he needs us.”

“Oh, like a special needs kid. I get it.” 

“Why are you here? You don’t look like you enjoy the company of children.” Yang laughed.

“Was it that easy to see?” She chuckled. “I’m here because my dad couldn’t make it. He’s a Huntsman and they wanted him to speak. He had another engagement, so here I am; I’m no Taiyang Xiao Long, but I guess I’ll do.” She glanced over to Blake. “Hey, I’m sorry for the way that bartender treated you. People can be assholes.”

“I’m used to it.” 

“Doesn’t make it right. My partner at Beacon, he’s a bigot. Pulls one of the Faunus second-year’s ears whenever he gets the chance.”

“And what do you do?”

“Beat him up, duh. Everyone deserves respect.” There was a silence. “So…” God, she was so bad at this. Pretty women flustered her. “So, are you from around here?”

“I was born here, but I lived overseas until I was a teenager.”

“Why’d you come back?”

“…Family reasons. And I wanted to see more of the world. I’ve read that Vale has one of the largest public libraries of all time, and I wanted to see it for myself.” Yang grinned.

“It’s pretty cool, but you have to be careful about the furniture—it’s so comfortable you’ll nod off, and it’s awkward to be kicked out by the librarian after they’ve heard you talk in your sleep.”

There it was—a smile. A little one, but it was there.

“It’s sounds like you have experience in that.” Blake said.

“Once or twice, yeah.”

They talked for awhile, and it was good. Great, actually. Blake asked her about the city, about Beacon, what she liked to do in her spare time; no one had taken this much interest in her life since she was the new kid at school. Blake was so wonderfully mysterious, her body language a puzzle Yang couldn’t wait to solve. And she loved that smile, loved it every time. Blake opened up to her with every passing minute, and Yang’s only thought was what she could ask to learn more about her. Maybe she should ask if she was doing anything after the dedication.

If anything, Yang at least wanted to give Blake her number. Not only was she pleasant, but she was also probably the most gorgeous girl her own age Yang had seen in a long time, and it wasn’t just because she was a Faunus and exotic. It was such a strange feeling, too big and fast at once: Yang felt like a piece of iron trapped in the magnetic pull of Blake’s eyes. When she made Blake laugh, she got butterflies in her stomach like it was love at first sight. 

Maybe it was. 

_Stranger things have happened,_ she thought. That was what cinched it. She took a cocktail napkin out of her pocket, scribbled her number on it, and passed it over to Blake. Blake’s smile softened, and she took it without a word. She did lay her hand on Yang’s arm though, so the odds felt good.

“Your father is Taiyang Xiao Long?” Blake asked.

“Huh? Oh, yeah. Fighting runs in the family I guess.”

“Must be hard to have a famous parent.”

“Not really, not as much as you’d think. Most people don’t connect the dots.” She smiled. “Props to you, though. You follow Huntsmen in the media often?” 

Blake’s scroll beeped in her pocket. She glanced at it, and her whole demeanor changed. The girl that smiled at her and took her number was gone, replaced by a darker emotion. Still, even when she looked concerned, she was hot. Super-hot. Blake slipped her scroll away and looked out at the square, thinking. She took lipstick out of her pocket and swiped it over her mouth.

“Do you want to go somewhere?” Blake asked. Yang’s mouth dropped open before she snapped it back into place.

“What, like now?”

“Yes,” Blake said, offering a hand. “Right now.”

“Hell yes.” Blake’s hand was warm and soft. Yang wondered what other parts felt the same. “I have to be back in twenty minutes though, for the dedication and everything.”

“Sure.”

Somewhere ended up being an empty maintenance closet. Blake pulled her inside with a sense of urgency, like she couldn’t wait for whatever was going to occur. Yang’s heart hammered in her chest. Today was turning into a crazy, topsy-turvy day. This never happened to her, despite how popular she was on campus—it was out of a movie or something, like those spy flicks her and Ruby watched when they were kids. Blake closed the door behind them, and the sound sent a shiver under Yang’s skin.

“Blake, I really like you,” She said. Blake grabbed the bottom edge of her jacket and pulled her close. Their lips touched.

Wow. Just… _wow._ These were kisses. These were most definitely hot, I-want-to-fuck-you kisses and holy shit, was this really happening? Yang couldn’t believe it. If kissing like this was like dying she’d want to die every day. She ran her fingers through Blake’s hair, kissed her forehead and her jaw and her pretty, pretty cheeks. Their lips met again and again, and Blake gave this adorable little gasp when Yang pressed a hand to the small of her back. This was heaven. Kissing someone had never made her feel like this. She felt giddy, light-headed even. 

“Hold on,” She said, breathless. “Hold on, I’m getting dizzy.” She laughed. “This is insane.”

Their foreheads touched. Blake’s thumbs stroked her jawline. 

“Isn’t it weird?” Yang said. “I just met you, but…”

“I know, I can feel it too. It’s so strange, like—”

“Like it was meant to be?”

Blake shook her head. “No, like I didn’t know what I was missing. I just wish the timing was better.”

What did she mean by that? Yang thought about asking, but Blake’s cheeks were such a beautiful shade of pink she forgot. She pressed another kiss to her mouth.

“You’re so beautiful, I…” A throb pulsed through her head. Her vision began to swim. “…Jeez, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Maybe I should sit down, or…” 

Her knees buckled. Blake caught her, sank down to the ground with her cheek-to-cheek, holding her so gently she almost wasn’t scared of the sudden loss of motor function she was experiencing at this moment.

“Shhh,” Blake whispered. “You’re okay. You’re going to be fine.”

In the distance Yang heard the sharp crack of machine gun fire. Blake cradled her, smoothing her bangs away from her face. She laid her softly down on the floor and kissed her forehead. “Thank you, Yang.” She murmured. “You’re very sweet. If things were different…”She trailed off. “Don’t be afraid. You’re safe here.”

She stood, took a handkerchief from her pocket, and wiped her mouth. 

_The lipstick,_ Yang thought, and blacked out.

 

 

 

Blake wasn’t usually this foolish. When Yang’s eyes closed, Blake turned out the lights and locked the door behind her. If Yang truly went to Beacon and was the daughter of a Huntsman notorious for his fighting skills, it was the smartest decision Blake had made all day. There was no reason for her to get involved in the fighting, and from a practical standpoint removing her as a possible opponent was good for all of them. Still, Blake was angry at herself. If she had known she would be so attracted to Yang, she never would’ve approached her to begin with, but her curiosity got the better of her. 

She touched her lips. 

She hadn’t lied. She had felt it too—the connection between them. From the moment Yang touched her hand in the bar she had felt it, but she couldn’t think about that now. She had to get that service elevator prepped to take the hostages down to the basement garage. From there they could go straight out of the service tunnel and onto the freeway, just as planned. She looked at her watch. She had time. As long as she took care of it in the next twenty minutes they would stay on schedule.

She retrieved Gambol Shroud from its hiding place in the stairwell. Finding Sullivan didn’t take long either; he was up a few floors on the office level, just like the bartender had said, and she could hear him crying from a mile away. He was cowering under his desk in a mess of his own urine, but Blake only needed his security card, so his filth wasn’t her issue. The elevator arrived and she locked it in place, then jogged back to the main square and the sound of gunfire. On the way she looked at her watch: right on time.

When she got to the square, a flying body knocked her off her feet. It was Hardy. He groaned and slumped against her until she could shove him off. Blake looked up. 

No, it shouldn’t be possible. The lipstick should’ve knocked her out for hours; she should be safe, locked behind a door no one would check in all of this chaos.

Yang jump-kicked one of the White Fang straight through a shop window. Her reflexes were dulled from the sedative, but dispatching their little rag-tag band was no problem for her. The sleeves of her jacket were pushed up to her biceps, allowing a pair of shotgun gauntlets to sheathe her forearms, and though she had to block or evade multiple sprays of machine gun fire it didn’t slow her down. She weaved around the bullets until she could get close enough to blast her enemy. The third Faunus fell under her assault. Parents and children huddling under cover made a break for it, only to be blocked by the remaining members of Blake’s team waiting at the sidelines. Yang streaked through the group of soldiers like a comet, firing shells, but at some point things would go south—any second there would be bloodshed, and this whole operation would go to hell.

“Stop!” Blake shouted to the others. “Hold your fire!”

Civilians gathered behind Yang, the children crying and afraid. The three remaining members of Blake’s team encircled them, guns pointed, and Yang snarled and raised her fists. Blake stepped between them.

“Yang, stop!”  


The hurt in Yang’s eyes wounded Blake too. It shouldn’t have, but it did.

“I was hoping you weren’t with them, but that’d be too much to ask for, wouldn’t it?” She said.

“Yes, Yang. I’m with the White Fang. Give us the civilians and let us through. We don’t have to fight today.”

“What are you going to do with them?”

A Faunus on her left pulled the hammer back on his pistol. Blake swallowed a burst of panic, and put a hand on the soldier’s arm to lower his weapon. She drew Gambol Shroud and stepped forward. It would be better for her to do it, should it come to that. She wouldn’t make Yang suffer.

“They won’t be harmed. Yang, please. You have to let us take them.”

“I don’t want to hurt you, but if you won’t let them go, you’ll have to go through me.”

Those lavender eyes glared back at her, defiant. Blake adjusted her grip on Gambol Shroud’s edged sheath.

“You don’t have to do this.” Blake said. “I don’t want to hurt you either. Just step aside.”

“Forget it.”

They stood there for a moment, facing each other down. 

“Gordon, take the team and get to the truck.”

“But what about the—”

“Take who you can and get out. That’s an order.”

Blake heard three shotgun blasts and then the click of empty chambers. Gordon and the other two White Fang were blasted into unconsciousness, and as soon as they went down the people fled in all directions. Yang grinned and ejected spent casings from her gauntlets with a flick of her wrist. They clinked onto the pavement.

“Guess your plans are ruined,” She said.

“You’re empty. You don’t have a single shot left.”

That fierce gaze remained unchanged, piercing and fiery. She popped her knuckles.

“I’ll make it work.”

She lunged. If Blake’s quick reflexes hadn’t saved her, that first punch would’ve cracked her jaw. Instead, a fist shimmered through one of her shadow clones and shattered it into air—her opponent was fast, very fast, and strong. Not bad for a human living a sheltered, ordinary life; if Blake were as drug-addled as she was, she might actually be challenged by this. Yang kept pressure on her, pressing attacks as though she could chainsaw right through Blake’s defenses: a sloppy tactic, clearly born of inexperience. Blake could outlast her.

“Quit hopping around and fight me!” Yang yelled.

Strategy would be key here. Blake kept distance between them, enough that Yang struggled to close it long enough for a sustained attack. She fired round after round at the girl chasing her, wearing away the last of her Aura bit by bit, waiting for the moment she knew was coming. It didn’t take long. Yang overextended a punch, and Blake took the opening to swing the blunt side of Gambol Shroud’s sheath upwards at an angle, thwacking into the bottom curve of the girl’s ribcage right into her liver. Yang stumbled, her face a grotesque mask of pain. She dropped to one knee—Blake guessed she’d only be conscious for a minute at most—the shock of the blow reverberating in the tremors running along her limbs. Adam had killed many men the same way, slicing a clean line along their necks as they lay stunned and helpless, but Blake had no taste for killing. 

“Stay down,” She warned. Yang’s fists clenched. Blake blinked.

Something was wrong.

Yang’s hair was glowing with light, lifting into the air with serpentine grace. Tiny flames licked at the edges, singeing into ash and nothingness. Yang slammed both fists into the ground, and fire and air burst into a wave around her that pushed Blake off-balance. The two women made eye contact, and for the first time in a long time, Blake felt fear. Yang’s eyes were like a Grimm’s, red and tortured. The fire from her enemy made every Faunus nerve in Blake scream in primal terror, the terror of forests burning to a crisp in a lightning storm, of being trapped in rings of heat that blackened fur and flesh, screams and blood cooking in the flames.

_Wait, don’t leave me!_  


_Blake!_

She fought to keep the fear pushed down. Her teeth shredded her bottom lip as she desperately evaded this other woman, this demon, that took every strike she landed on her and kept coming. Her bullets ran out. Gambol Shroud whirled on its tight carbon ribbon until Yang caught and trapped the blade between her palms, knitting her fingers together. The metal grew red-hot in an instant, white-hot, spreading like a cancer until Blake’s weapon melted off from the end of the carbon filament, and Yang snatched the ribbon before it too folded into slag. She yanked it hand-over-fist, smashing Blake to the pavement.

“Got you.” She growled.

Blake scrambled to tear the band from her wrist, but she only unwound a few loops before the hard kick to her temple battered her Aura. The force bowled her over onto her back, and the other girl was on her, knees bracketed against her sides, smashing her fists into Blake’s face. She was so strong. Blake felt like a BB jangling in an empty can, strike after strike; stars exploded twice across her vision, her head unprotected now, the barrier of her Aura extinguished, and then—Yang stopped. The crowd emerged from cover, fleeing down side streets until the square was empty. Blood thudded dull in Blake’s ears, and when she opened her eyes only one could stare out at her enemy, the other already swollen shut. Yang huffed above her, knuckles bloody, the red glow gone from her eyes. She rolled off, clutching her side—Blake’s strike to her liver catching up to her at last. An explosion sounded off in the distance. 

“Are you done?” Yang grunted. Blake groaned. “Good. So am I.” She collapsed face-first onto the square, and passed out.

Adam found them after Blake had managed to rise to her feet, chuck Yang’s gauntlets into the bushes, and find the remains of her weapon. He rolled up in a stolen military jeep, his beautiful morning coat torn along one bicep and a sour look on his face. He leapt out of the vehicle and went to Blake, putting her arm around his narrow shoulders to help her walk. 

“We’re leaving. I’ve got Huntsmen on my tail from the factory. Where are the hostages?”

“There aren’t any.” Blake swallowed. “Someone interfered.”

“Who?” She pointed at Yang. Adam took aim with Blush. She grabbed his elbow.

“Wait! We can take her.”

“Her?”

“She’s Taiyang Xiao Long’s daughter. It’s better than nothing.”

Adam thought for a moment. He picked up Blake and set her in the back of the Jeep, then jogged back and carried Yang over. He dropped her next to Blake, and threw a pair of handcuffs into Blake’s lap.

“Cuff her. We’ve got to move.”

He got into the driver’s seat and fired up the engine. Blake cuffed Yang to the back frame of the Jeep, the girl’s elbows fanned apart like she had clasped them behind her head. Remembering the kick to her face, Blake borrowed a ziptie from Adam and bound Yang’s ankles together for the ride as well. The Jeep whined as they sped out of the city, and when they went off-road to avoid the inevitable road-blocks on the outskirts of Vale, every bump jostled the three of them with teeth-splitting pain. Blake removed her jacket and pillowed it behind Yang’s head; watching it smack into the side of the vehicle while she was unconscious bothered her. 

“Pretty girl.” Adam said, glancing into the rearview. Blake looked at her, allowed herself out of curiosity to touch Yang’s hair, so ordinary now that it wasn’t glowing like a sun. It was golden and quite soft, but ordinary.

“Yeah,” she replied, “She’s beautiful. And a bitch to fight.” 

“I can tell from your shiner.” He grunted. As they slowed down, Blake hopped into the passenger side. 

“What’s the plan from here?” She asked.

“We drive to Half-Moon Bay. We ditch the Jeep, meet our people, and take the boat to home base. We’ll figure out what to do next when we get back.” 

“Did you get the shipment?”

“Of course. Goose had it out of the city before I found you.”

“You never told me what we’d use the hostages for.”

“They’re a distraction, like I told you. Don’t worry about the rest of the plan, Goose and I are taking care of that.” A groan sounded from the back. “Looks like she’s waking up. Put her to sleep again. Or bag her. Whatever.”

Yang wriggled in the back, and Blake sat next to her. If her face didn’t throb so painfully, she might’ve found Yang’s efforts to be comical; the other girl thrashed and twisted like an epileptic, like the world’s worst upside-down version of The Worm.

“I’m going to break these cuffs!” She said between gritted teeth. Blake sighed.

“No, you’re not.” Yang roared and yanked, but remained bound. She hollered and tried again, the cuffs cutting into her wrists. 

“Stop that.” Blake snapped. “You’ll hurt yourself.”

“I don’t care!” 

“Well, I do! Now you can stop or I can sedate you, your choice.” Yang seethed and relaxed. “Good. Thank you. Now, I have to throw a bag over your head and I don’t want to have to gag up on top of that, so keep your thoughts to yourself.”

“Where are we going?”

“Don’t ask stupid questions. You know I can’t answer that.” Yang sighed. 

“So I’m your hostage, huh?”

Blake didn’t answer, and pulled the black burlap sack over her face. 

 

 

Shit. 

Shit, this was not good.  


_I am such an idiot,_ Yang thought. _I am such a kidnapped, soon-to-be-tortured fucking moron._

In what universe did she think she could stand up to a group of terrorists in a fight? Her father prepped her for kickboxing tournaments and killing Grimm, not beating down on the White Fang. Granted, the foot-soldiers she trashed were pretty punchable, but you’d expect that from a group that recruits most of its soldiers from city slums and throws them into a war with no training. Blake, though—Yang winced as someone snatched her elbow—Blake was different. She was smart, trained, not like the other White Fang in the square; whatever her weapon was, it was a custom job and judging by the limited conversation Yang could hear in snatches as they transported her, she was higher up in the chain of command than most of the others. Yang was lucky the girl had knocked her out rather than killed her. In a way though, that was the worst part about this whole mess: if Blake had punched her in the face at least she wouldn’t know how lovely it was to kiss her.

They traveled for hours. After the boat landed, another rough hand shoved her into a van, and they drove. Yang kept track of the minutes in her brain, but the occasional smack to her head made her lose her count. It must be the guy; Blake had asked him to stop once or twice.

“It’s no more than what they’d do to us in the same situation,” He said, and walloped Yang’s ear again. She bit back the pain.

When they stopped, Yang smelled earth, pine, and animal dung. Birds called from far away, and there was the low rushing sound of the ocean nearby. A gentler hand (Blake’s, it must be) took hold of Yang’s handcuffed wrists and walked her along. A wooden door opened.

“There are stairs here. Watch your step.” She said.

The stairs went underground but it couldn’t be a bunker; the floors now under her feet felt like wet dirt, and sometimes roots dragged through her hair from the ceiling. Wherever they were, it was some kind of tunnel system, maybe built off of an already-existing basement or cellar. They stopped walking. A curtain slid aside, and Blake guided her into a chair and took the bag off her head. They were in some kind of makeshift medical bay filled with equipment at least a decade old. The tall man from the Jeep leaned in the doorway. 

“Coada’s waiting for me upstairs. Get your injuries dressed and lock her up. We’ll debrief when you’re done.” She nodded, and closed the curtain after he left.

Blake took another chair from the desk in the corner and set it in front of Yang. Their knees touched. She closed her fist around the lapel of Yang’s jacket and pulled her forward a few inches, a tiny black handcuff key pinched between the thumb and forefinger of her other hand.

“There are dozens of White Fang members running through these tunnels at any time. If I release you, and you attack me, they’ll be on you in seconds. You’re exhausted and defenseless, and if you so much as even look at a Faunus the wrong way your odds of survival are low. Do you understand?”

“Yeah.” Blake relaxed and let go. She unlocked the cuffs and tossed them onto a nearby gurney.

“Don’t worry,” She said. She took Yang’s wrists in her hands, stroking both thumbs along the violet contusions there. “I’m going to look after you while you’re here.”

“You mean you’re my jailer?” Blake looked up sharply, golden eyes hard like flint.

“I saved your life. Adam would’ve killed you.” She pressed with the pad of her thumb on a bruise at the hollow of her wrist. Yang winced.

“Sorry, that wasn’t on purpose.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” She said. She tapped the spot. “I think your scaphoid’s broken.” She looked at her watch. “The Aura suppressant we gave you in the car has another hour left. Your injury should heal fine once it wears off, but tell me if it still feels stiff.” She stood and examined Yang’s ear. “This is bruised too.”

“I’ll be fine. I’ve had worse. Are you okay?”

“Huh?” Yang pointed to her eye. “Oh. Yes—well, yes, it’ll be fine.” She paused, a frown pulling at the corners of her mouth. “Thank you for asking.” 

Blake retrieved two icepacks from the wall freezer. After wrapping them in muslin, she sandwiched one between Yang’s injured hands and pressed the other to her own eye.

“Listen—I’m sorry for what happened. I never intended for you to get involved.” She said. Yang shrugged.

“I’m sorry too.” She thought for a moment. “Did you know who I was before you talked to me? Is that why you drugged me?”

“No, I—” She glanced at the floor. “You seemed kind, and when you told me who you were I was afraid you’d try to protect the hostages.”

“And that mattered why?”

“…I don’t know why. Once we started talking I felt I didn’t want you to get involved.”

A shout rang out in the corridor. Blake started, then went to the curtain to peek out. 

“The meeting’s starting. Let me take you to Detainment.”

The holding area wasn’t a cell so much as an alcove scooped into the side of the tunnel wall further along in the complex. Uneven cement coated the walls and floor, and the gate was a rough, patched-together hunk of steel crossbars. The cell was just long enough and wide enough for Yang to lay down if she chose, and it was black save for the glow of a utility light just by the door, which she had no doubt would turn off as soon as she was locked up. Blake nudged her in gently by the shoulder, then closed the door behind her and padlocked it.

“It’ll be over soon, Yang. I promise.”

The room plunged into darkness, and she was alone.

 

 

 

_Flames._

_Invisible death, scalding air—crackles and snaps, beams collapsing, tongues of fire licking furniture, rugs, curtains, blackening the pages of the book she had left on the kitchen table this morning, char absorbing the words, never to be read again. She wanted to help, but every shred of wreckage was too heavy for her young body to move, and she was too scared to try. She stood in the front doorway of the house, rooted to the ground in terror._

_“Blake!”_

_Her mother’s voice, screeching from upstairs. A rafter broke loose and smashed the stairwell to bits—a spray of hot embers caressed Blake’s face, and she screamed._

Blake gasped like a knife had been pressed to her throat and left a raw, ragged wound. The breath froze in her chest, still with panic—her fingernails cut shallow crescents into her shoulders, her knees drawn tight to her stomach. She was as stiff as a hunk of wood. Perhaps she could still burn just as easily. Adam snorted from the other bunk across the room, only his horns and a tuft of red hair cresting over the swell of his pillow.

“Blake, go back to bed.” He mumbled. “Come over here if you want.”

Adam never understood. There was no way he could understand, but that was alright. It was her own private pain, nestled deep where no one would see, healed over by time save for its small, tumorous center: that would not be unpacked, would not be dulled by age or by the arms of a companion. It stayed, her steadfast companion always, quiet in the dusty corners of her memory.

 _Damn that girl,_ Blake thought. Before the fight with Yang yesterday she hadn’t thought of the fire in months.

She drank a glass of water in the kitchen, her long nightgown damp and clinging with sweat. There was no moon tonight, but that didn’t matter for a Faunus; it was easy to see through the kitchen window the handful of soldiers wandering to bed after their guard shifts or standing at attention at their posts. Even here they couldn’t relax. They tried, though—some of the walkers outside stumbled drunk, their companions hoisting them up enough to get them into their racks and take their boots off. One boisterous fellow hollered the lyrics of an old love song for a bar or two before the others hushed him, and she smiled.

Blake didn’t know why her wandering feet took her into the cellar. The dirt was cold and the tunnels dark with inactivity, and perhaps that was the reason—the light and heat of the fire in her dream felt a far ways apart from her location now. This she understood. She was having more trouble understanding why she desired still Yang’s company even after she told herself she should stop thinking about her. Human-Faunus relationships never ended well. She knew that. Still, she wanted to see her. When she arrived at Detainment it seemed that Yang couldn’t sleep either.

Yang was an ugly crier. Her eyes puffed up and so did her nose, bloated with snot and disgusting. She had horrible, muffled little mewls caught in the hollow of her throat, like a baby animal howling for its mother. Blake was revolted by her. She pitied her too. In the darkness, Yang couldn’t see her, but she made a valiant effort to soothe herself and get the crying under control—after a few minutes, she scrubbed her face with her hands and got up, pacing around the cell. She took her jacket off and, to Blake’s surprise, unbuttoned her shirt as well. She folded both and laid them on the ground. Her boots came next, and her socks, and then her jeans. Clad in only her underwear and bra, she fell forward into a push-up.

“One,” she counted. Another push-up. “Two.”

The concrete couldn’t gentle on her hands or feet, but Yang didn’t seem to care, even after she hit the thirtieth repetition. Yang wasn’t crying now, wouldn’t cry for awhile. Blake knew that from her own experience.

“One,” she counted, and finished her sit-up. Another. “Two.”

Adam had called Yang pretty, and Blake thought that was an understatement. Yang was so much more than that; she was pretty, but brave, too. Foolish, but brave. And while Blake couldn’t be certain, she thought that if things were different, they could’ve been lovers—in the little inner garden where she kept all of her what-ifs and fairy tales and idle stories about strangers, she could imagine what it would be like to be in love with this woman. The tiny speck of her that was free of her normal jaded outlook wanted it.

“Thirty.”

Blake’s prisoner finished her last sit-up, and wiped sweat from her forehead. She rubbed her neck free of moisture as well, then reclined on one arm, one leg bent like a sculpture. Blake half-considered speaking to her from the pitch darkness; the thought of Yang’s reaction amused her, but it was mean-spirited considering that she had just watched the girl try to calm herself down for thirty minutes. She thought about that a bit. What if their positions were reversed? 

If Blake were her prisoner, and the burning dream found her here, what would she want Yang to do?

She crept back to the entrance of the room. She stomped a few paces in the hall—well, not stomped, but walked with enough force to make noise a human could hear—and returned. Yang heard the footfalls, reaching for her clothes in alarm.

“Hello?” Yang called. “Is—is someone there?”

_This is a bad idea._

“It’s me.”

“…Blake?” She squinted. “Hey, will you turn a light on?”

“No. I prefer you in the dark.” Yang laughed in a short, voiceless burst. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing. Just my dirty mind.”

Typical. So juvenile. 

“What brought you down here, Blake?”

“I—” What was the reason? “I…couldn’t sleep.” 

She shouldn’t have said that. It shouldn’t have slipped out like it did. Yang’s smirk faded from her face.

“Me neither. Bad dreams?”

“Yes.”

“Want to talk about it?”

This was ridiculous. Yang was Blake’s prisoner, the White Fang’s prisoner—only yesterday they had beat each other to a pulp. They had kissed too, but—no, that was a mistake. They’d barely spoken since the handcuffs, abuse, and first-aid. She knew this was foolish. It was stupid of her to come down here—

“I have a little sister, and she has bad dreams sometimes.” Yang started. She pulled on her shirt, buttoning it. “She’s strong, you know? She holds it in, tries to use the fear she feels to push through things, use it to keep her alive. And it does, most of the time. But not always.”

Blake sank to the floor, tucking her legs under her. Yang rolled her jacket and laid down on her stomach, cushioning her head and arms with her improvised pillow. She drew lines on the concrete with a finger.

“She hurts, and it won’t go away. The worst thing is that I can’t do a damn thing to help her; I mean, help her on the inside. When the Grimm took her mom, I was a little kid and we didn’t even know what had happened until later. I’m an adult now and all the training in the world can’t fix what she’s lost. The only thing I can do is listen. I’m good at that.”

Even in the darkness, Yang’s gaze seemed to transfix Blake to the spot.

“Things are complicated.” She said. “I know. But you’re like my sister: no matter how strong you are, you need someone to talk to. You might as well let it be me.”

Words began and stilled on Blake’s tongue. Yang looked worried about her. Why? It was absurd.

“That’s the most ridiculous idea I’ve ever heard.” Blake replied. “I’m nothing like you.”

“Well, no, but you’re in pain. I can tell. There isn’t any shame in it, my sister—”

“I am not your sister and you couldn’t understand my life. You’re incapable of it.”

“I could try.”

Blake was calm. She gripped tight around one of the door’s crossbars.

“You don’t know me.” She said. Her voice was steady and low. Quiet. “You don’t know anything about me. You—” Blake’s breath hitched. 

Yang took her hand. Her calloused fingers snuck into the curve of Blake’s palm, her other hand laid over the knuckles. She looked so concerned in the darkness, so kind. Did she realize Blake could see her? Did she plan it?

“Please, Blake. Let me help.”

Yang had such an honest face, didn’t she? Trustworthy and open. It made Blake’s heart pound. And there she was, waiting, reaching out, hoping to reconnect with her. And then—shared stories, empathy, kindness, secrets, passion, escape, a new life—Blake could see it all a mile away. That was how these stories always started, wasn’t it? It happened to so many others; they forged a bond with a human, fell in love, and ended up with a knife in their back. Like Tukson in Vale.

Like her mother.

 _No,_ she thought.

Blake clenched down on Yang’s fingers, clenched down so hard the girl winced.

“Are you naturally this bad at manipulating others, or did your father never teach you properly?”

“Huh?” 

Blake struck her other hand against the bars. She tore free and walked to the chair against the wall. She picked up the nightstick laying across the seat and returned to the cell door; Yang looked uneasy and confused. More deception.

“Blake, I wasn’t—”

“Spare me. Turn around.”

“What?”

“Turn around and put your hands against the wall. If you try anything, _anything_ , the guards outside will kill you.”

“What—”

“Be quiet,” She grunted. She disengaged the padlock and swung the door open.

Rage seethed through Blake’s veins like cold, dark poison. This girl, with her kindness and her pretty face, she would learn. Blake would teach her what their relationship was supposed to be: not lovers, not friends, only the chilled terror of prisoner and warden. She’d seen Adam do it a million times, hadn’t she? Watched him rip open stitches and break fingers, run a paring knife along the inside of a human’s cheek until it split, crush a knuckle over a nose over and over and over again? He would be proud of her come morning: she had never had the stomach to hurt a human for her own satisfaction before. Looking at Yang reminded her of everything she had lost, and what she could never have for herself.

Yang stood spread out on the wall, palms flat against the concrete as she was told. Blake pressed the end of the nightstick against her right shoulder-blade. She could hit her, she thought. She could strike across the joint hard enough to bring Yang to her knees. She could pull it against Yang’s throat until her trachea crunched shut. That was what the police did at the rallies, wasn’t it? The nightstick grazed across Yang’s shirt until it found the ridge of her spine.

“I knew someone like you,” Blake said. “My mother fell in love with him.”

Yang’s hands clenched on the wall, then unclenched. Blake lowered the weapon and took hold of the fabric, bunching it in a tight fist. Maybe she should rip it, tear away all Yang’s clothes and leave her naked and humiliated for the others. She released her grip, let her hand travel upwards until she reached golden locks. Yang, already tense, stiffened even more as Blake twisted her fingers in her hair. A schoolmate of Blake’s had hair like this, before it was chopped off by a teacher three times their age.

“I wanted to believe that she could be happy. I wanted to believe he was good, that he wouldn’t hurt her. All of you humans are the same—you lie to us and use us, and then you throw us away. None of you can be trusted.”

She looked down, staring at Yang’s bare legs in the darkness. They were strong, muscular, free of the nicks and scars that laced across her own thighs from flung bottles and rocks over the years. Blake thought about touching them. Hurting them. She could pinch them, claw at them; she could bruise Yang between her legs like Adam did sometimes to other prisoners (he said he didn’t, but she could smell it on his fingers) and the thought broke across her rage and turned it to dull heat in her chest. It was the screams that had brought her home early from her stargazing that night so many years ago. She remembered flames, embers pricking her face, men laughing up the road, her mother’s lover the loudest of all. She let go of Yang, pressed her face to the girl’s hair, tears stinging at the corners of her eyes.

“Blake?”

“Shut up.”

“Blake, why are you crying?”

Heat reached her face now, her anger at Yang turning inwards. Her heart squeezed, collapsed onto itself like a wet cardboard box. Strong arms wrapped around her. It took all the strength she had to keep her composure in check. This was so stupid: it was so stupid that she was crying over an old wound, that her enemy was holding her, was stroking her hair and apologizing and vowing she would never, ever hurt her—it was ludicrous.

“They burned her.”

Blake remembered her mother trapped under a burning rafter at the top of the stairs, howling as the fire consumed her, her head ablaze like a torch, skin melting from her face like candle wax. A fiery hand stretched out, begging for rescue. Blake ran away. The screams were still in her ears. 

“They burned my mother alive and I left her.”

The nightstick clattered onto the floor. Yang shifted, but Blake couldn’t even be bothered to care. Let her strike. Let her escape. Let her vanish, and take this pain back to the shadows. But she didn’t leave, only kept her close and soothed her as best she could. Under the anguish, Blake was happy. Happier than she could remember for a long time, happier than she had ever been; her heart melted in her chest.

“I don’t even know why I’m telling you this.” She sniffed.

“I told you, I’m a good listener.” Yang whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

Her hands were the only relief that mattered now. They brushed away tears from her cheeks and brought her closer into all that warmth and comfort in Yang’s body. How long could Yang last here as a prisoner like this, she wondered. How long until Adam figured out their blossoming feelings for one another? Blake tamped down her tears and pulled away. She threw Yang’s clothes to her.

“Go.”

“What?”

“You have to go. You’re not safe here.”

“I’m not leaving without you!” She clasped both of Blake’s hands. Despite the fierce edge in her voice, there were tears in her eyes too. “I won’t!”

“You have to. I’ve got to buy you time; they won’t know you’re gone for at least an hour or two, and I can send them looking in the wrong direction.” 

“They’ll know it was you!”

“Maybe, maybe not.” She picked up Yang’s leather jacket. “I’ve been wanting out for awhile. This could be a good time.”

Her own nightdress felt cold now, or maybe it was because her skin was still hot from crying. She watched Yang put on the jacket and straightened the lapels when she was done.

“When you come out of the cellar, head to your left. There shouldn’t be many guards, but you have to watch for the patrol that runs the perimeter of the farm. Go in a straight line through the woods, and you’ll reach the main road. Take a right and don’t stop walking until you get to Ainsworth; that’s the nearest town, and you should be able to get back to Vale by tomorrow if you move fast. Here, let me get the light.”

“Why are you doing this?” Yang asked. The answer wasn’t hard to put into words, but that didn’t make saying them any easier.

“You know why.”

It took so little to upturn a world. Just the touch of a hand.

“Find me.” Yang urged. She kissed Blake’s forehead. “When you’re safe, come find me.” Blake let out a dry laugh.

“Of course.” She said. “I have your number.”

**Author's Note:**

> I challenged myself in two ways for this story: I wrote it in eight days and the focus was on love at first sight. Usually when I write it takes forever because I fuss over details, and relationships developing over time is kind of my thing, so this was a wild ride. I hope you enjoyed it!


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